


The Worse the Haircut, the Better the Man

by itsacoup



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-18 00:58:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2329418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsacoup/pseuds/itsacoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Jesus, what even is your hair,” Rich asks, horrified, and James feels himself pouting.</p><p>(Inspired by James Neal, Hairstyling Disaster featured in the Preds season ticket delivery video.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Worse the Haircut, the Better the Man

**Author's Note:**

> In case you haven't seen the video mentioned, [here](http://itsacoup.tumblr.com/post/97752088628/predators-forwards-james-neal-and-rich-clune) is a gifset showcasing the salient point but also with a link if you want to torture yourself with the actual video. [Here](http://i48.tinypic.com/4qsf9.png) is a physically painful to look at example of who James is throwing shade at in terms of hair styles. Also see Paul's parts in James' NHL36. YOU'D THINK HE WOULD KNOW BY THE AGE OF THIRTY NOT TO DO THAT WITH HIS HAIR.

James is the man with a plan. Granted, not all of his plans tend to end well, like that time he tried to make a frittata, or the time he pranked Duper, or that other time he pranked Duper, or really….well, quite a lot of his plans, honestly, but this is the best plan. He’s sure of it, even when he slides into the car that’s taking them to the school to deliver season tickets and everyone kind of gapes at him.

 

“Jesus, what even is your hair,” Rich asks, horrified, and James feels himself pouting.

 

“Don’t knock it, I like it,” James says, and pulls at the sides, tries to make sure there’s enough upward flip at the ends. He’s getting a haircut next week because this shit is way too long to style properly, but at least he can put his plan into action before then.

 

As they’re driving to the school, James makes sure to butter up the camera guy. All eyes are on him anyway here in Nashville, but he wants to be absolutely sure they get a good shot of just him for the video. He’s fairly sure his buttering skills are more like margarine than the fancy Amish shit that Paulie buys, but it appears to work, because in a few hours the video is up and almost half of it is a headshot of James gushing awkwardly about the kids, the Preds, the experience of delivering season tickets.

 

If anyone would ask, James would insist very firmly that he is not waiting anxiously for a call after the video goes up, he is _not,_ but the reality is he's slouching on the couch, watching old episodes of Dirty Jobs and lunging for his phone every time it lights up.

 

Finally, Paulie’s picture pops up for a call, and James doesn’t even try to wait to answer it to seem less pathetic. “Hey,” James says, feeling himself start to smile goofily. “What’s up, pumpkin?”

 

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” Paul asks, clearly derailed off whatever his intended opening line was.

 

“At least once more, Miss Swan, as always,” James trills, and Paul groans.

 

“What--why--what do you--your _hair_ ,” Paul finally manages, exasperated.

 

“Yeah? What about it?” James asks.

 

“It looked fucking terrible in that video,” Paul says flatly.

 

“I would like to point out, that hair is inspired by someone that isn’t me. Someone whose name rhymes with ‘fall carton.’ And had hair like that. Except more red. So, really, your hair was stupid first.” James pauses to let that sink in. “And? Did you like your present, Mr. I-watch-your-team’s-promotional-videos?”

 

“No,” Paul says. “It’s atrocious. Why do I even let you near my dick? Why does anyone allow you out in public without supervision?”

 

“I had plenty of supervision, thank you, and your dick loves me best.” God, James really does have the greatest plans. He thought he was going to have to be the one to bring up dicks, but there goes Paul, doing all the heavy lifting. James appreciates that in a boyfriend. Also the ability to make a frittata, since he’s banned from attempting again, but that’s neither here nor there.

 

“My dick is absolutely rethinking that, after seeing what a disaster you’ve apparently become,” Paul says, but his voice betrays him, shifting lower and quieter, sending a tingle down James’ spine.

 

“Yeah?” James asks, feeling his voice grow husky in response. “Guess I’ll just have to remind it why I’m it’s favorite.”

 

“James,” Paul breathes, and James can’t hold himself back anymore, cups his cock through his shorts.

 

“Tell me--tell me what to do,” James asks, nearly begging. He feels embarrassed about asking like that, but Paul isn’t nearby anymore to take care of him, and James has realized he needs that care like he needs breathing.

 

“Don’t take your pants off, just put your hand in,” Paul says, and James can hear him unzipping, the bastard, but the relief of James’ hand on his cock is immediately distracting.

 

“Paulie,” he whines as he starts an uneven stroke. It’s difficult, with his wrist trapped against the point of his hip, but he works with it as best he can, pushing at his foreskin as he listens to Paul pant in his ear.

 

James is twisting on the couch, trying to simultaneously get away from the rough scratch of his boxers and into the warmth of his fist when Paul finally says, “Go on then, pull your cock out for me.” James whimpers and obeys, hips working up of their own will once he’s free.

 

“Paulie, God,” James groans, hand speeding up now that he’s got room to move. “Wish you were here, wanna touch you, wanna suck your dick ‘til I can’t talk.”

 

“Gotta wonder what your new teammates would think of that,” Paul says, warmly amused, and James moans even as he regrets ever telling Paul about the exhibitionist thing because seriously the man never shuts up about it. “You must look amazing, all spread out and desperate, couldn’t even take your clothes off you wanted it so bad,” and that’s it, James chokes out “Paul,” and comes everywhere--all over his pants and shirt, ugh, but then he’s feeling too blissed out to care.

 

“C’mon babe, wanna hear you come,” James mumbles after a few seconds of the slick sound of Paul’s hand on his own dick. Paul lets out a long, quiet sigh, and James pictures in his head the loose expression that usually accompanies it, Paul’s eyes half-closed and head thrown back.

 

James gives Paul a few seconds to enjoy himself, and then says smugly, “Seriously though, I have the best plans.”

 

There’s a long pause as Paul works out the meaning of that. “So you’re saying you did the hair thing because you thought you could get phone sex out of it?”

 

“Uh...yes?” James says.

 

“You could just ask,” Paul says, drily. “Pretty sure I just proved I’m up for it even when you intentionally look awful.”

 

“Please, I am the goddamn light of your life and you love when I go the extra mile for you,” James says.

 

Paul sighs. “Also,” James adds, “I ruined my clothes, you asshole.”

 

“Wow, I am just so sorry,” Paul says, a little sharp, “how could I ever make it up to you? I could choke you on my cock next time I see you, how’s that sound?”

 

James can’t answer for a few second, he’s so breathless from a new wave of arousal. “Uh, that’d be--that’d be cool,” he finally stutters, and Paul laughs at him.

 

“Go clean up, James,” Paul says, his voice back to its normal post-orgasm warmth. “And don’t call me again while you’re making dinner, I remember how well that went last time.”

 

“Fine,” James grumps, poking despondently at the soggy streaks of come on his shirt. “Can I call you after? I wanna hear about your day.”

 

“Yeah, Jamie, call me after,” Paul says, and James can’t help but feel proud of how this all turned out. He definitely has the best plans.

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me at [itsacoup](http://itsacoup.tumblr.com)! Drop an ask if you want to talk hockey, I want to chat with you!


End file.
